


reverence.

by reyshine95



Series: Tales of the Pendria [2]
Category: Arthurian Mythology, Arthurian Mythology & Related Fandoms, British Mythology, Some Marvel, original universe - Fandom
Genre: F/M, Familial Abuse, Implied Sexual Content, Implied/Referenced Abuse, Implied/Referenced Domestic Violence, Implied/Referenced Torture, Other, This is independent mythology and therefore won't make sense unless you fucks with my rp, it's a mature fic so ya know don't get your panties in a twist if you were expecting that bbc fluff, most of morgana's stuff is based on my independent mythology and novel so, not based off any show or movie or whatever
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-02
Updated: 2019-01-02
Packaged: 2019-10-02 15:36:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, No Archive Warnings Apply, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,064
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17266847
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/reyshine95/pseuds/reyshine95
Summary: multi-shot following anrp promptfrom my best fran





	1. requiem

**Author's Note:**

> this fic is created solely for the punishment of my best fran [sjalfvili](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sjalfvili/pseuds/) after she wrongly hurt me with her own. 
> 
> the entirety of this fanfiction is based off my own private mythology based heavily in arthurian legend.
> 
> these concepts are found on my writing/rp blog on tumblr [ should you be interested in seeing more.](http://cnuasach.tumblr.com/)  
> however, these all stem back to my novel that has been in development for a bit now.  
> my content is not your content, but feel free to show some love on it if you enjoy! 
> 
> feel free to look up my fran too, she has some dope ass writing both on her [blog](http://www.sjalfvili.tumblr.com/) and her ao3 by the same url.  
> the content that is 'marvel' related (which is typically outside my novelization) is based and developed with her. 
> 
> you 1000% deserve this brooke, but we love you ❤︎

_**Let her go?** _

The demand spoken by lips so unworthy. No sooner the offenses surfaced had they been relayed. Her spies forever maintaining a careful vigilance over the two beings most precious to the sorceress.

Morgana could find no reason for Arthur’s interference nor its origin. There was no inclination that her brother would ever, or should ever, speak on her behalf. Much less, should he ever remark on the nature of her heart's delight.

Unperfect her relationship with the mischievous trickster might be, it conquered enormous obstacles laid before them. They grew stronger in their efforts, and for the first time in an age, Morgana felt a true morsel of hope that the coming days would be good -- _full of love and tranquility._

For her brother to dare infringe upon such balance? To selfishly tamper with that which made his sister whole? _Safe?_

\---

Her anger palpable. Seething, and yet, anguish seemed more abundant than one might ever care to consider.

The oasis of the library perfumes with bitter ash and sulfur upon her approach. And like a fool, he waits, staring aimlessly at the likeness created in his honor which resided in her sanctuary.

Arthur does not flinch when she challenges him, "I crawl on bended knee to give you a home, and this is how you repay me?"

"What do you wish me to say? I spoke the truth, it hardly seems my fault your pretty little suitor does not seem inclined to hear it."

Such scorn is buried deep in his otherwise taciturn reproach. Clearly skilled in the language of his sister, Arthur does not give immediate rise to her shrieking even as she jabs her merciless little finger into his chest.

"He is NOT my suitor, nor do you have the authority to decide _WHAT_ he is to begin with," Morgana held herself well I’m the arena of discourse. 

_She too, after all, was Uther Pendragon's heir._

"You know very well what he is responsible for, what he is capable of, would you have me sit by and allow him to harm you?" It’s reason, he offers, a SENSIBILITY that seemed to fall beneath the standards her well-crafted mind.

For all Morgana's books, Arthur failed to see how she overlooked the very nature of this creature. Drastically different to her in every way, and still, practically barbarous along with his oaf of a brother.

Was he to let his only living kin tramp off with these parasites? Leeching off the world. Abusing his sister's good nature -- ~~however deep she might hide it.~~

"You have no right to speak on the matter of harming _ME_ , Arthur Pendragon. You have done far worse than even your wretched father."

Ice floods him, and he twists to strike away her accusations, impeding on her space in a swell of fury.

An ancient betrayal surfaces once she recoils away from him. A fissure marred deep within the long dethroned King. 

Chests swell, conflicted greens meet brazened blues, and Arthur freezes as her wavering fervor sends true horror through his veins.

A sickly reminder of the cruelties inflicted to one so beloved.

A memory of unmistakable fear that he could never remove from the tombs of his soul. _Oh, harm her he did, and in ways he could not repent for in ten-thousand lifetimes._

His beautiful sister, once as delicate as the wild honeysuckles that bloomed along the hills of their home. That once looked at him in admiration which shined brighter than the coming dawn. There was no equal to the horror that haunted the years following their separation. How her tears played in damning repetition as the shattering memory of those sweet eyes drained into a death-coveting void.

So reduced to the same frightened girl that defied them all – now daring to defy him again.

Only this time she's unnerved him, as her voice, despite its tremble, held firmer than before. A defiance not rooted in rebellion, but in a heart whose loyalty aligned ANEW.

Towards someone who earned the privilege to call her home where Arthur had lost it.

Still, he would not simply linger in solitude forever. Destiny proclaimed him the champion of their fates. Therefore, Morgana must be _made_ to see.

Arthur rallies his posture, careful to step from her side towards the collection of statues that circled his own. A graveyard of heartache, created in reverence to those she pledged her heart to once.

He'd analyzed them for weeks, working out their stories, their histories. The moments time had not permitted him and  _not permitted her in the end._

_How could she not see his aim was to show her mercy?_

“You are _**my**_ **_sister_** , and I say this courtship is a farce,” A steadfastness that lacked fortitude.

A lowly farmer, born from nothing and lived his days as such. He had no amiable qualities of flesh, nor any riches to provide, shelter, or nourish a divine soul. Yet his foolish sister fell into his arms and bed, a weakness that soon wrought devastation after the ingrate died.

The second, a treacherous snake of false piety. A known predator that sucked life and vitality from each corner of his father's dominion. The false cardinal offered little in the way of genuine appreciation for the girls he would trick into his ploys. Devouring their estates, perverting his own family. _How could his sister allow such evils to blemish her so?_

Still, the third was no better. A thoughtless puppet born into imprisonment sanctioned by the greed of his kin. A wistfully dreamed fairytale crafted in the unbearable winters of the Rus. He too lacked breadth of knowledge and security. A blessing, in the end, that he was snatched away along with his abominable seed.

Yet the fourth, towering closest to the window, Arthur found no fault to be had. While he knew little, he felt the unrelenting pain that championed the statue's erection. Not a cretin to violate his beloved honeysuckle, _oh no_ \-- _but a wound that festered still._

A weakness yet culled.

All these years waiting for his return, Morgana tried to form some life of meaning. Yet each ended in disaster, in heartache, and he knows this too will repeat until the fulfillment of the prophecy.

Damn him she might, but he speaks only out of love for that which he dreamed to shelter from life's cruelest temptations.

“He does not deserve you,” Short, blunt, and as he turns to regard her, she stands still affixed to where he'd stopped her.  

“And who are _you_ to determine that?” She replies, damn near breathless. As if the words had been said before, in countless dreams that _NEVER_ seemed to change.

Morgana feels a chill growing in the air. No longer fueled by her rage, this dance became achingly familiar. Her heart clenches, yet her pride dares not allow her to stagger.

“ _I am your brother_ \--” He tries.  

“And that gives you the authority to determine who I _belong to_? Who I _choose_ to be with?!”

 _Yes_ , he thinks, _as only he would know best how to shelter her._ Protect that which was most precious within her spirit.

Morgana, once bathed in a lecherous fire, could wash clean. He would return to the light and set her free of these endless cycles of loss. Yet, she remained obstinate. Resistant to control.

He knows not how to unravel this mess as it builds to a crescendo.  

“Morgana, he is not even of our people… _of your own,_ if you must be so–” 

“He loves me,” She breathes, her brow furrowing as twisted hands wind behind her back. Fair features rise, flickering between the sentinels now surrounding them. She’s running through her words, his own, and the eons not yet recovered in the cursed King’s memory. Morgana wishes not to fall victim to the trials and tribulations of the past. Achingly fearful of the relentless evils that haunted her, _but this was different,_ surely?

“His love will be temporary, as it was before,” Arthur reminds her, taking a step closer to catch a crimson curl between his worn fingers.

Morgana swallows back a barrage of emotions, turning to wordlessly question his cruelties. Not understanding what point there was to declare such things. _Why did he want her to suffer so?_ Why did he wish to surmount the very thing that had at last granted her some morsel of PEACE? They would be happy, she had been promised safety for all her days to come. _Love_ , honest and true.

Heavy-lidded features rest on her watering eyes, _those brilliant, shining jewels_  -- “Sweet sister, let me spare you of this pain. If I might do nothing else in this world, allow me to protect your dear heart this once.” Her lips part in a quickened inhale as his thumb rounds her supple cheek. Ah, she’s captured once again, _unwittingly_ – **unwillingly**.

 _Protect?_ Morgana flinches. A physical retraction to the horrid reminders that his unintended irony instills in her. She dares to shake free his wandering hold, backing into the neighboring shelves, only he seems to chase her every step. His smothering nature only stirs further discontent in her belly.  

_Morgana knows these tricks._

Her hand snaps between them, knocking his arm from her while compelling the doorway to the library to slam open. It rattles the very walls of the ornate room. No longer a sanctuary bathed in warmth, there was a growing dread that mirrored the frosting windows.  

A newfound hum of power causes downy hairs to be set on edge. An energy that sparks deep within those emerald orbs as they bleed into a magnificent molten gold. She dares to strike an unseen match that would ignite long-buried discontent.

“ ** _Get out_** ,” Clear, hissed from clenched teeth and an inflamed fury. A warning, one rarely afforded when uttered from such profane lips, and yet, one he clearly cares _not_ to take.

His shoulders roll forward, a hand raises in defiance towards her in equaled but ignorant wrath. “You and I already know how this ends, Morgana! Over and over we’ll do this until either YOU make this right or _**we end it**_ , together!” He snarls, unbothered by the rising of ill-fated airs and an increasingly unnerved sorceress. “We can’t outrun the prophecy sister, no matter how much you might want to resist—”

“You can’t stand there and tell me what I _HAVE_ to do for a prophecy! You’re still living in Brittany, _you absolute child!_ It’s been over a thousand years, and the universe is more than even UTHER imagined!”She roars back in her anger, the flame licking up from the stone fireplace.

Not even in the great coliseums of the dead would such ghostly vision be invigorated. Arthur did not trifle now with the same lamb once brought to slaughter.

 _“Our father–”_ “OUR FATHER was a monster! More than I could ever be, and you bloody well let him destroy everything good around us!”

Uther who had waged war on the druids for decades.

Uther who had lied to his children to spare his vanity any injury.

Uther who had damned them both to these destinies to which Morgana would bare _NO LONGER._

True love once so scarce throughout her endless days, but she fate would never again weave her as nothing more than a reed made to bow.

Uther never earned her loyalty, nor had Bel garnered allegiance with any inkling to defend her seemingly honorable heart. Morgana spared no forgiveness for those who had abandoned her.

But for the days she mourned, for each in silence and suffering, the love she had for her brother had not wavered. Even if his offenses remained the cruelest ever to maim once unblemished flesh.

Morgana forgave him.

The famed monster of legend. The great Harlot of Brittany. Renowned for obscene evils that earned her the moniker of the Morrigan... _SHE forgave him._

For she regarded him in anguish, and yet, a vast yearning.

A little flower still begging to be loved and cherished where all had trampled upon her. 

_One Arthur still could not resist plucking from the nourishing soil if only to inhale for a moment longer._

Eyes long unyielding from each others dueling regard, Morgana half-expects him to shrink away to lick his wounds.

She uncoils once silence seeps between them, unwilling to hear his impertinence a moment longer, and desperately wishing her true salvation to return so she might be at ease.

Yet the melody of this timeless dance had not yet finished, blood remained boiling beneath a conflicted fascade. ** _Arthur snaps_**.

Lurching forward, he snatches her by the arm, and before she can put pause her movement, she's crushed against the towering bookshelf.

Pinned between rattling wood and his suffocating figure, she freezes.

Her breath is stolen from her chest, and not a whimper of distress has time to fly to her lips as his callous digits wrap around her throat.

"Too long have you tested my patience, too long have I flattered your ego by _allowing_ this charade to continue," his strained grip bulges beneath his skin with the gushing blood that now deafened him. His hellish mouth hovers inches from her face, hissing dark edicts long left to calcify within, "The betrayal of your promises cursed us BOTH to this life, and I'll be damned if I let that sniveling worm take away what's mine again." _~~Never again.~~_

She would join him in this life or the next. 

The tips of her shoes scrape the tiling as he held her. Her quivering lips begin pooling in deathly blues. Arthur couldn't kill her, _no one could by mere force._ The curse damned her to only one form of release but did not spare her of the agonies of physical torture. _Of which Merlin crafted her understanding of such horror extensively throughout her numerous imprisonments._

Arthur may not kill her by the will of magicks, but Morgana's blood granted her no strength to defend herself either.

Soundlessly, she screams. Frantic to breathe, and yet, he watches with a sickening eagerness. To finally shut her up, _to have her right where he wanted her._ No more fighting. No more arguing.

Her fingers wrap around his wrist, heaving every morsel of energy to unlatch him from her. A purge of molecular darkness infects his skin from every pore in her trembling fingertips.

Arthur howls, throwing her back from where he'd pulled her in.

The stars of approaching darkness flood her vision, but by some grace, she grabs hold of the shelves before crashing into the flooring. The stairs, mere feet away, are given a wavering glance before she pushes off to escape.

Despite his injury, Arthur dares not let her. Only a single step is climbed before he's got hold of her again. This time, he's careful to ensnare her wrists in his unharmed grasp. Tipping them into the rod-iron staircase, both struggle until brute size and weight win over.

Trapped, she's trapped. 

She cannot weep, cannot struggle, —  ** _"Do it then!"_**

A pathetic whimper drags across her frayed vocal cords. She won't fight it. She won't fight him. Even if he would kill her, _Morgana can't._

Not Arthur, not again.

Stabilizing above her, he heaves a growl in contention to her blubbering. An instinct to snuff it out that only fails to fulfill as she dares not shut her eyes. Morgana looks at him, pale and dripping in near-tasteable fear, and _those damn eyes_ strike true the obscene parts of his soul.

He hesitates, only a fraction of a second.  -- _"Or can't you do it without the bloody dagger?"_

Frail and morbidly made naked in her sharpest of barbs, but his breath seized by the recounting of her innocence so cruelly stolen.

Arthur falls back, releasing her as he staggers away.

There were no words to speak, nor had Morgana the strength to run should he regain his nefarious faculties.

Instead, it is Arthur that turns and flees. Slamming the door, she's sealed in with the casting's magic.

Left crumpled on the stairs, Morgana slowly turns to pull herself upright despite the impending tremors. She cannot be sure how long it takes for her lungs to fill again, but no sooner had she the capacity, did these tremors turned into unslakable convulsions.

Darkness floods through the window, shrouding Morgana's misery as shame creeps up every nerve in her body. The pounding of her head well deserved for her stupidity, and so follows all manner of self-flagellation at the blistering ring of greens and blues bloom around her throat.

There, _alone_ , in her impervious sanctuary, tears broke with ALL abandon. Wishing for the end, for absolution, -- for safety that would ~~never~~ come.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> unbeta'd but ya know. 
> 
> chapter 2 isn't far off, and the other two planned chapters have good chunks done. 
> 
> stay tuned, or don't. either way, give it up for family? ;)
> 
> -xo Ash


	2. revival

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tags updated on fic, please give a glance before continuing. thanks ❤️

He idles within plain sight. A rarity for someone typically so guarded, and yet, the tension of his jaw spoke volumes for him. Clearly too unnerved to return from wincest he came, Loki finds the bar a suitable option to relieve his troubles by the bottle.

The bar, a mellow mixture of contemporary and fine-aged styles of middle-class New York, welcomed all. Including those who fell below the classification of the majority species. 

Not just humans, _no_ \-- there were countless amalgamations of damnation, magicks, and the great beyond. All, however, accounted some of their species' birth to the reigning sorceresses some ten thousand years prior. 

Thus, the frequency of the renowned red-haired harlequin subsequently drew in clients of every make and model. This was also true for the wayward Prince of Asgard. 

\-----

Yet with an endless tab and a familiar face, no one dared to disturb him for the majority of his stay. The bartender indulged the barrage of silent orders to refill and replenish. With no capacity to become drunk, it seemed more therapeutic to try rather than to face whatever mayhem awaited elsewhere. _Oh, if he only knew what awaited him once he returned to the Bath estate._

Mayhem, nevertheless, fixed its eyes upon him far sooner than he'd realize. In the form of a man, appearing no older than thirty in human physiology. Slightly disheveled, roguishly handsome, and yet, there as a deep allurement within his blackened gaze. Hardly the old, heavily bearded wanderer that legend painted him out to be. Sitting himself to the right of the Trickster, he orders two ales without so much as glancing at the bartender. 

"The old ball and chain seems to prove even more ineffective for her these days," The stranger muses faintly, taking the newly settled drink with a cheeky grin at the now uneasy bartender. 

Whether the Trickster cares enough to read the room, the clear shift of unearthly energy dares to snare his attention. Taking in the stranger in a brief glance, had his words not been uncalled for and deranged, the bloke might appear utterly harmless. Still, it's the devilment in his grin that compels a lingering contemplation. 

"That's what this moping bit is about, eh? What's she done this time? Burned the library? Snogged the ladies' maid in a fit?" 

Loki frowns, half-inclined to remove himself once more from the wearisome conversation before it unravels into nonsense. There have been enough humans spitting dribble at him today. Yet the Stranger leans in, lip coated in a layer of bubbly sheen that sticks to his ebony whiskers, "Sorceresses are a fussy bunch mate, but the Harlot of Brittany tends to rain destruction regardless. Don't take it personally." 

Oh, but it was difficult to smother the fire that peeked at the insolence within those weary eyes. Honorable perhaps, particularly when mulling over such conflicting thoughts, but hardly worth much at the foot of the master. 

"Ah, I see, I see, it was Arthur wasn't it? _Those two are always up to something_." 

Arthur's name does draw the Trickster back. A discontent long overgrown, now near boiling. He thrusts his drink back to the bartop, uninterested in doing more than settling his dues and retreating back to a less populated attraction.

Whether the stranger is another liaison of Morgana's or some sort of mind reader, it does Loki no good to set his teeth further on edge. To moreover persuade the growing conflict within to manifest despite all manner of assurances proclaiming the prevalent issue to be null. 

The stranger still does nothing to openly repeal the growing hostility, in fact, he thrives within its waters. A growing simper of cheek mellowing into a more tactical approach. After all, he had watched Loki for some time in the far corners of the bar -- _waiting for his opportune moment to arise._   "If you leave friend, how will I tell you the answers you seek? The story's long hidden that the Morrigan fears any to know?" 

Finally, Loki speaks, "I have no interest in your stories, however contrived. You offer nothing." And to this, Loki lies. Despite an eternal abundance of skepticism and doubt, his knowledge on Morgana's world outside those heavily-guarded walls led to many questions left unanswered. It was as if he did not know any morsel of the girl beyond what she presented in privacy. Well crafted and controlled. A facade, _perhaps_. 

The stranger takes another sip of his brew and slides the previously untouched pint over to the Asgardian, "We both know that isn't true, you reek of it. And believe me, _I smell it_." The uncertainty, the brewing conflict, and all the questions teaming with doubt. Whether the bloke birthed of darkness or magicks, his gifts were clear in the depths of his aura. A truth that nakedly paints him out with some mirage of credibility. 

Still, despite the hum of magicks and the deep air of distrust within the room, Loki hesitates. Staring aimlessly down at the drink before scrutinizing the stranger once more. "Why offer me anything? Nothing comes free, and I have no money." Not entirely true, but hardly worth clarifying at the moment. 

"Because you look like a creature in need of the truth, and that, as a xiezhi, is my honor-bound duty to provide," The stranger confesses, setting aside his now emptied glass before turning to regard the other. "Ask me what you want to know, and I must tell you the truth. It is my curse, as one might say." 

Loki pauses, clearly unstudied in all manner of Midgardian folklore, and yet, he seats himself in contemplation. Light fingers brush the handle of the offered pint, he dares not to spare another glance if only to betray such matters of the heart in privacy. "How do you speak on such matters? Do you know her?" 

The stranger shortly nods, keening his head as brows perk in animated response, "I am studied in the matters of the Pendria sorceress. Most are deep behind the veil. She has not always been a shut-in you know, and many of the monsters on this godforsaken planet are descended from her people."

A partial truth, although hardly unwarranted given the contributions the Pendria's had in the crafting of the world.  "And how intimately involved are you in the histories of her family?" 

The stranger glances between himself and the bartender before he answers in a low tone, "She's had many attempts at one in her unnaturally long life, but in regards to Arthur, I knew the story long before it was morphed into fantasy novels and cheesy pornographic films." _Oh, the irony in such a statement_. Yet, when the Trickster does not answer, he takes it upon himself to paint a modest picture. 

"Those two have been dancing around damnation for over a thousand years. A beautiful freckled girl and a dashing prince charming." Picturesque really, a magical image that likened to every childhood fancy. "You would think that they would have been prime candidates for the whole happily ever after, eh?"  

Loki scowls, still not looking at the stranger as he tries to piece together the description from memories. 

"Raised up together, they were inseparable. Sweethearts of the acutest kind. Uther supposedly took the girl in shortly after Arthur's birth, hardly a year apart, and as far as the kingdom was concerned it was a profound benevolence." 

How could it not be? The aging King had been lucky enough to receive an heir to the throne from the heavens above, and despite the terrible troubles inflicted from decades of war, Arthur's arrival was seen as a beacon of hope. To take in another babe, lost within the troubled world, and provide sanctuary? _It garnered him much favor with his downtrodden people._

"They did not breathe lest it was together. For so many years, wherever she went, Arthur followed within utter reverence. For Arthur loved her more than all the stars in all the skies." And as children, the King would do nothing to stifle his son's admiration for the girl. Beneath the years of plenty, the horizon seemed fruitful. Arthur grew quickly and with great capability.  

"As Morgana grew older, Uther's benevolence turned to cruelty. Unspeakably paranoid, he did everything in his power to drive the two apart. Yet his meddling only seemed to push them closer together, finding solace with one another as the dark realities of their little kingdom became all too real." Merely children, and yet, what other friends might they have to look upon the stars with? They spoke of dreams to one another, of futures with bright skies and endless potentials. They could grow no closer, so quickly they seemed to bleed from one heart and yearn with one soul.  

"Legend says they were to be married, to sneak away within the night -- Arthur to abandon the crown so he might finally be with his beloved. Alas, they were foiled when Uther was forced to confess they were brother and sister." A pity, although little regret could be seen on the stranger's face as he recounts the legend. 

"To say they were devastated, it would surely be an understatement. Still, while Arthur licked his wounded pride, Morgana faced Uther's wrath for far different crimes." Growing paranoia masked the sky and all the stars. Where once had been endless potential thereafter lingered judgment and scorn. Uther came to hate her, even still as a child brought unwillingly within his walls. 

"You see while she was most certainly Uther's daughter, his late queen was not her mother. Born of a curse from the Pendria's god, her true parentage had been concealed in fear of what might befall them all. Uther had done much to control his daughter, but as you very well know, one can not contain a flame indefinitely." 

And Morgana's true father, the burning might of Bel, would make himself known through the girl in great defiance. Boiling beneath her flesh, ravaging her dreams, Morgana's torment began far before her fall from grace.  

"The King began isolating her from her brother with private tutors and disallowing her admittance to any formal matters of the court. Soon she was not permitted to leave the grounds of the castle, then the residency wing within the castle, but Uther would not stop there. Dreams began to plague her of a coming calamity of fire and brimstone. Soon the touch of a physician drove her to madness, and word began to spread that something was amiss within the royal household."

 _Which only furthered the King's paranoia._ "Uther locked in her chambers for more than a year, the girl had been starved of contact save the guard outside her door and weekly meals with her father." 

Not allowed to wander the markets and speak to the people she'd warmly grown to regard. Not allowed to ride along the pathways of laden forestry. Not allowed to roll amongst the wildflowers in the meadow, nor even climb the tallest towers to watch the sky till the break of dawn. Merely four walls, a single room with a trickling supply of items as time progressed. Soon left only with a bed, a table, and a chair. Morgana spent most of her formative years wearing marks into the floorboards. 

"One particular evening, she begged an audience with her brother as the following day was to be the dawn of her twenty-first year. When the King denied her, there was a scuffle of sorts. No one knows exactly what happened, or who instigated the ordeal. All that is said is that Morgana lashed out, letting forth a morsel of the true darkness that lied within, and in doing so -- _unhinged every fear within the King._ "

A question, meekly asked in frail but potent hope, was dashed with unwavering brutality. For months of agony and silence were endured without provocation, Morgana could have born not a moment longer. Rage fell from her lips, a cacophony of questions that demanded answers. To know why her father had grown to hate her, why he had taken that which she held dearest away from her. Why not simply kill her if he despised her so? 

Yet such questions only spurred a malicious rebuttal, and Uther, with no regard of the increasingly unraveling child, struck her to the ground. Wounded, depleted of every assurance of love or self-worth, Morgana lashed out. She let forth a wail that summoned anguish from the very depths of hell. The bedding caught fire at her touch, staggering to stand after her own father abused her, and oh how every nightmare shared between King and Princess soon began to play out. 

"Uther sentenced his daughter to death for treason the very same night. When the guards came to drag her away, the newly crowned Prince Arthur discovered the scene. Morgana implored him to save her, fell to his feet and clung to the tassels of his ornate cloak, begging him to persuade their father to spare her life." Surely, Arthur would see that which he loved most and pity her? Arthur, who championed himself her protector and confidant? _He would see reason._

"Instead, Arthur did nothing. _Said nothing_. No one knows why, but her misfortune had already provoked a great mob." Or rather, one had been spurred on by unseen hands. "Uther had her dragged out of the castle, before the people, and damned her as a treasonous witch. Overwhelmed by the mob, it is said the King and Prince looked on as their people did unspeakable things to no more than a frightened, desolate, girl."  

Things that would forever mark her, body and soul. The foundations of such a tragedy that unearthed and awakened a beast buried deep within. Despite Uther's rampant attempt to remove magic from the world, he could not so easily undo the power created out of such arrogant scorn. Morgana's lifeforce would not be so simply snuffed out, as greater plans than either the King or her own were indeed in play.

"Arthur attempted to reason with the King throughout the night. To barter for the life of his sister, thereafter a broken heap lying in the shit-covered dungeons. But before terms could be brokered, _she escaped."_  

Fleeing the Kingdom in a halo of hellfire, more frightened of herself than the uprising of monsters birthed from mankind. Morgana fled deep within the forestry. Seeking shelter with the similarly persecuted. Still, fate would not allow her to idle in the wilderness forever. Bel's will not yet complete, and the titanous King Uther promptly fell weaker with age and insanity.

"Time separated them, as did their father, but Arthur’s love was a jealous one. Unspeakably perverse in its possession. He wanted his sister to himself. _No matter her crimes."_ No matter what he had to do to get her. "But in their separation, he began to hate the very thing he loved most. Where she believed Uther to be the cause of all their families sufferings, Arthur blamed Morgana for Uther's growing madness and the discontent within the kingdom."

After all, once out of Uther's hold, Morgana became the thing the mad King feared most -- _his prophecized undoing._ Raids against the druids became more frequent, and yet, they became harder to find as time elapsed. Protected by the fledgling Princess, however, while still sheltered from the entirety of the truth, there was only so much Morgana could do. 

"Nearly three years had passed when she finally returned from exile seeking Arthur's help against their father. The intensifying raids against the druids meant they suffered increasingly. Numbers dwindled by the day, and the discarded princess sought to end ALL parties suffering." 

Morgana only wished to return the lands to peace. To protect those cherished across both sides of the divide.  

"But you see, Arthur cared not for her plans or intentions, only did he re-ignite the great hatred spurned from the wounds of years prior. Ultimately, _he turned on her._ Played upon her fragility and innocence, and then, Arthur took what he had been wanton for since they were children." The point, despite the quieted ambivalence, is somehow uttered with a faintness all too telling of the crimes.

"By pointed blade, it is said, he had his fill. And all that innocence so cherished in her bled into the dirt. The last morsel of love left lost to the ages." 

No longer a child teaming with dreams, no longer a wayward girl trying to find some prolific meaning in life. She had loved and lost, tragically. Arthur, for the longest time, had been the last thread binding her spirit to the earthly realm. Guarding her heart against its inevitable downfall. Whether prophecized to destroy or not, Morgana birthed no fowler than honeysuckle on a hillside. Yet the dagger had severed her heart from her chest and left only a husk of bitterness and betrayal.  

"She killed Uther soon after, showing in wrath and ruin that in end -- _she was her father's daughter._ Upon the battlefield, after hailing dragon fire upon the city and slaughtering thousands with her unholy army, Morgana killed her brother by his own sword. Then the mighty Pendria Queen, bathed in battle scars and soaked in the scent of death, took her own life to put an end to the horrors of Camelot." 

A poetic end to a tale carved by hands far crueler than her own. Her actions, while monstrous, taken in a frantic attempt to regain control of a story's end. For if those wistful horizons were to be long erased, Morgana would raze all of them to the ground. No longer trapped in an inescapably bleak tale. She set Arthur and herself free. Or so she thought. 

"She failed, naturally, the evils committed against divinely protected creatures brought a curse on herself. And, in the end, she unknowingly snuffed out the very thing prophecized to bring peace to the lands." And oh, how such an end could not have been more suitable a punishment for them all.

"Morgana awoke having murdered herself along with a child unborn son. **_Arthur's son_**." 

The great peacemaker, a child of blonde hair and iridescently golden eyes. One that should have come long before, and yet, arrived too late to spare either his mother or father the agony awaiting them.

"Thereafter, she was damned to live an eternity alone, unable to love or be loved. Cursed to lose any child laid before her. Alone, _forever_ , until her beloved brother returns and frees her by the same blighted blade he imprisoned her innocence." A dagger long held by another awaiting the prophecized return of the King. A kinsman to the blood-stained weapon that hung above Morgana's mantle. 

Arthur's return indeed a cause for celebration. Yet, not one that would seem to spark elation to any who loved her so. Morgana's heart undoubtedly in flux towards the presence of one so dear. Though, to be at ease in his presence, it spelled trouble that would demand further answers. A swell of emotions hardly spared, and yet, before Loki can even release his fixated gaze from the bartop to regard the stranger once more, _he is gone._

Alarmed, standing upright to notice all other patrons gone, Loki is met only with a shutter from the doorway. Akin to many heard in the past, it clearly births from only one casted location.

Only the creature pouring forth is not his beloved. _Oh no, it's an all too familiar sight that sends impending dread down his spine._

Thor, clearly unkempt from a scuffle, crosses the room quickly in aim for his brother to confess urgently, "There's been a breach, _she's been taken_..." 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> once again, un-beta'd but heyyy
> 
> pls don't kill me brooke
> 
> hope you like it. 
> 
> xo, ash


End file.
